


Masculinity Is A Prison

by abovetheserpentine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fraternities & Sororities, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:45:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9519254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: Inspired by the following vine dialogue:Guy #1: I’m manly. I’ll hug a guy, I don’t even care.Guy #2: Well, I’m manlier. I’ll kiss a guy!Guy #1: Well, I’ll marry a guy! [gets on one knee]Guy #2: [heartfelt] Bruh!Liam is a frat boy and Harry fancies him. Too bad Liam's straight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I hate that I wrote more Lirry. Why am I like this? When will I stop?
> 
> Inspired by [this vine.](http://rainbowliam.tumblr.com/post/156294062391)
> 
> See the end notes for comments regarding tags used.

Harry’s crush on Liam started on that very first day of semester, when Liam sat down next to him and promptly fell asleep during the first seminar of _Music, Gender, and Sexuality_. He just looked so serene asleep like that, tucked away in the corner next to Harry as the professor went through the course outline. Well, for the first ten minutes, anyway. Then they spent the next eighty minutes talking about the progression of gender’s influence in classical music until they were dismissed.

He felt a little guilty leaving Liam there, lashes precariously close to brushing his cheeks, plump lips pink and glistening a little with the drool this new friend was currently leaving on the desk. Everyone’s a friend, Harry reasoned at the time, even if you haven’t so much as properly met them. So he’d put a careful hand on Liam’s shoulder and nudged him awake.

Liam had made some kind of groaning sound, blinking open his eyes. Harry had been a little done for then, the warm brown of them melting him slightly. He’s always been a sucker for brown eyes and curls, and the short hair on Liam’s head had alluded to the later.

Harry had smiled, something uncertain and hopeful, and said, “You missed it,” and, when Liam continued to stare at him, “Should I have woken you up earlier?”

“Sorry,” Liam had blurted out, and Harry remembers being pleasantly surprised at the accent that came out, a little midlands and more like his own than anyone else at this university, “Sorry. Shit, I really shouldn’t have done that.”

“Ease up,” Harry had replied with, and then subsequently internally berated himself for – _how idiotic_ – before continuing, “I’ll let you borrow my notes.”

And so their friendship had begun. Unlikely though it was, as Harry finds out that second week, when Liam enters the classroom and sits down quickly next to Harry, looking around the room in what Harry would describe as confusion, for lack of any other description.

“Alright?” Harry asks, searching Liam’s face for an answer to his silent question, a further probing of _What’s got you riled up?_ that he’s too scared to vocalise – doesn’t want to scare Liam off, you see, because he really likes looking at his strong jawline and bushy eyebrows, even if his backwards cap is a little offensive to Harry’s tastes when it’s coupled with that vest.

“Yeah,” Liam replies, the weird look on his face dissolving once he focuses on Harry, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes as he smiles and _Oh no..._ “Kind of funny, actually. Couldn’t get into the class I wanted so I’m stuck here.”

And there’s the other shoe, as they say.

“That _is_ funny.” announces Harry, relishing in the widening smile Liam shoots his way even if he’s not at all laughing. Harry takes a moment to look at Liam properly, and something heavy and clunky and cold sinks through his organs and down to the bottom of his stomach, and then sinks even _that._ Liam’s got the cap on, yes, and the vest – but then he’s also wearing some grey joggers that make him look like he just got out of bed, despite the fact it’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Harry eyes trace over the strong, now imposing – though previously alluring – shape of Liam’s biceps, and the way he’s suddenly got his laptop open, Facebook up and running, something that looks suspiciously like an event open. He clicks attend, and Harry glimpses pictures of tens of shots lined up, people looking absolutely pissed, and something that looks frighteningly like an ice sculpture of a woman’s naked bust before Liam clicks out, back to his news feed.

Harry feels small and awkward for the first time since his last few years at high school. Since he came out, really. This is not the best situation he’s found himself in – and it’s definitely not one he can charm his way out of this time.

Not to Liam, who seems to be for all intents and purposes a frat boy.

Somewhere, somehow, Zayn is laughing at him.

“What subject were you aimin’ for, then?” Harry asks, trying not to lean too much into Liam. His slightly heeled boots, ripped jeans, and silky shirt suddenly seem like the worst outfit to wear today. Why didn’t he wear _plaid?_ Harry laments his wardrobe choices.

“ _The Predicted Metamorphosis of Pop_ ,” Liam sighs out, turning to face Harry. They’re still in the back corner this week, and Harry has the awful thought that maybe his jean shorts and t-shirt get up from the last time they saw each other is the reason why Liam sat next to Harry in the first place. After all, it’s not like there weren’t other seats he could have taken, closer to the door and less likely to bring attention to his late arrival. “Seems everyone wanted in that, though. A few of my frat brothers got in and they said the lecture theatre was packed _full!_ ” Liam smiles, shaking his head, “What about you, then? What class did you miss out on to land you in here?”

This is honestly Harry’s worst nightmare, because he’s been looking forward to this class for ages – was waiting anxiously on his student administration page to click ‘enrol’ right on the dot of nine o’clock in the morning on timetable day.

Harry smiles, coughing through a laugh.

“Erm,” He starts, pushing his hair behind one of his ears when it flops forward, stubborn and annoying. He’s trying to think of something, a subject Liam might pick himself, “ _Sacred Continental Polyphony,”_ He almost winces as it comes out, heart fluttering in a panic at Liam’s raised eyebrows, “A surprisingly big hit with the Religion majors, Liam.”

“Right,” Liam says, cocking his head like a confused puppy – and there’s imagery Harry didn’t need; Liam’ wide, innocent eyes making him feel guilty for literally nothing, “Sounds interesting.”

“Would have been,” Harry comments blandly, turning the pages of his text book in front of him aimlessly, pretending to skim its pages for some knowledge when really he’s hoping for any sort of _cool._ Liam’s got him all out of sorts – most especially because Harry’s eyes really shouldn’t be darting back to the five o’clock shadow on Liam’s jaw, and he _really_ shouldn’t be imagining biting said jaw. He’s not imagining it in a friend way, either. Though the absent thought pops through his head that maybe Liam would fall for that.

 _Pull yourself together, Styles,_ he berates himself, sending a sunny smile Liam’s way and hoping it distracts him from Harry’s erratic page-turning.

“But then we wouldn’t have met, would we?” Harry says, and the strangled nature of his tone doesn’t seem to bother Liam, who looks up from his laptop – he’d turned back to it whilst Harry was panicking – to smile at him, bemused but friendly.

They continue on like this for the rest of the seminar. Harry’s pleased, at least, that Liam’s deigning to take notes. He’s not sure his pretty face could have been reason enough for Harry to let him borrow his own for the rest of semester. Harry might be pathetically crushing on a straight frat boy, but he’s got standards. He tells himself this, anyway, when Liam gives him his mobile number – says they need to keep in touch in case the other is sick.

It’s on seminar three – they only have them once a week, and Harry is both thanking and cursing the subject coordinator for this fact – that Harry figures out why Liam’s in America at all.

“Got a football scholarship, didn’t I?” Liam tells him casually, their paired discussion about the effects of undisclosed sexuality in eighteenth century Europe stilted and filled with the furrowing of Liam’s brows. Harry had taken pity on him and changed the subject to something more personal – ergo, Liam’s explanation. “Don’t know how I did it, to be quite honest with you. Thought I was well done for when none of the unis in the UK would take me.”

“Well, this _is_ only San Diego.” Harry blurts out before he can stop himself. Liam stares at him a moment, and Harry almost thinks he’s going to have to apologise – maybe suck Liam’s dick to appease his bruised ego – before Liam barks out a laugh. It quickly turns into a giggle, Liam’s shoulders coming up in a weird sort of shrug.

 _Not good,_ Harry thinks, throat tightening as he stares at Liam in fascination, _This is not good._

“You’re right,” Liam agrees, grinning, “But I don’t have to pay a cent, so I think it’s sort of brilliant.” He looks at Harry warmly for a moment, and suddenly Harry feels overheated and fidgety in his Led Zeppelin t-shirt and ripped jeans. “You, though – how come you’re here?”

This, at least, is easy to explain.

“M’bit of a wanderer,” Harry starts, picking absentmindedly at the threads surrounding his exposed knees, “My sister went to Spain for uni – but I only really know a little bit of French.” Liam scrunches up his nose, and Harry’s helpless to laugh, endeared, “Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Australia seemed too hot, so I came here.”

“Well,” Liam proclaims, sitting up a little more as the class quiets, “Like you said – we wouldn’t have met each other.”

He must be trying to kill Harry, the way his eyes are earnest and fond. Harry’s hopeless to it, and it’s right then that he accepts he’ll be fancying Liam the rest of the semester, as the professor’s voice asks them their thoughts on the topic.

“Bro,” Zayn laughs later through a hit of their shared blunt, the Frank Ocean he’s put on in the background calming Harry’s nerves, “You’re fuckin’ hilarious.”

Harry frowns petulantly, snatching the joint from Zayn’s paint-streaked hands.

“Shut up, Bradford Bad Boy.” Harry snarks, and Zayn glares at him, good humour lost.

“At least I’m not crushing on some straight frat brother.” Zayn retorts, adopting an American accent for the last two words.

“You’re not even gay, Zayn.”

“Irrelevant!” Zayn cries, taking the blunt back. Harry rolls his eyes, feeling hazy and loose. His tongue sits thick in his mouth, and he hates in that moment that he thinks of Liam – he always gets a little heated when he’s high, and the thought of his lazy, languid tongue brushing against Liam’s sends shivers up his spine.

“You know I love you, yeah?” Zayn mumbles into Harry’s neck however many minutes later, the both of them sprawled on their living room floor. The rug underneath them isn’t even comfortable, but Zayn’s mum had insisted they have it – it makes the place look less like two struggling uni students live there and more like an actual home, so Harry doesn’t ever complain.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, patting Zayn’s head, his buzzcut feeling buzzy and weird in Harry’s high mind, “You, too.”

“Even if I didn’t let you suck me off that one time.”

Harry scowls, pushing Zayn off him.

“Fuck off, Zayn. Fuckin’ hell.” Zayn’s laughing on the floor, almost rolling around with it, and Harry gives up. He stumbles as he gets up, almost tripping over the edge of the heinously patterned rug on his way to his room. He doesn’t slam his door, because he’s not really angry even if the remnants of his shame from two years ago linger at the back of his head. Zayn’s a prick, Harry decides.

 _Zany’s a prikc._ He frowns down at his phone, confused as to why he just got this message.

_haha ! what?_

His frown deepens, and his eyes flick up to see the name _Liam_ on the top of his screen.

 _Oh no,_ his mind sluggishly realises, _I’ve texted Liam._

 _Sorry,_ he texts, eyes watering. Why did he even smoke so much? Zayn’s a prick. _Been on the_

He searches for the relevant emoji for way too long, and by the time he sends it, Liam’s already written back four times.

 _lash?_ Liam’s sent.

_haha im joking haz_

_what are u doin?_

_u ok?_

Harry groans, throwing his phone onto his bed and landing on top of it in a heap, eyes half-lidded and limbs feeling ghosty. He’s too tired to think of much else, flapping his arms about to feel the way they lag and drag, like he’s in a computer and the Wi-Fi connection is terrible.

He’s at work the next day, head fuzzy and not all there because he smoked too much and it does that to him sometimes, when he sees Liam again. He almost hides behind the counter, but Alexa raises an eyebrow and Harry’s forced to greet Liam like every other customer at Starbucks.

“Hey, Liam,” He says, and Liam looks up from his phone. He grins brightly once he sees its Harry, adjusting his backwards cap almost as if he’s tipping his hat off to Harry. Wildly, Harry has the sudden desire to steal it and place it on his own unruly curls.

 _No,_ he scolds himself, asking Liam for his order, _That would be_ flirting.

“Didn’t take you for a cappuccino kind of guy, Liam.” Harry comments, as if there are certain kinds of people who drink cappuccino when they’re all uni students and struggling to stay awake. It’s like whenever Liam’s around all of Harry’s best lines fly out the window and he can’t even charm Liam into being his _friend._ It’s pathetic, and if Zayn were here he’d be smirking into his sketchbook and Harry would throw some stirrers at him in retaliation. It’s been known to happen.

“Not really a coffee guy,” Liam tells him, and Harry frowns until Liam points at his chest. Harry follows his index finger to look down at his own name tag, the ‘My favourite’s cappuccino!’ scrawled on a sticker underneath seeming cheesy now that someone’s actually acknowledged it. “But you’ve convinced me.”

Harry’s laugh comes out awkward and high even to him, and he sees Alexa silently laughing into the barista machine out of the corner of his eyes.

“Great,” Harry says, smiling without teeth and probably looking like a frog, if Alexa’s sudden coughing fit is anything to go by. She keeps telling him he needs to stop, but he can’t help it when Liam’s smiling at him like that and taking his recommendations and acting like they’re friends and not just people who sit together based on a conversation of _lies._ “Tall? That’ll be two thirty-seven.”

Harry takes the time between Liam searching his wallet and passing over the cash to assess Liam’s outfit; his hoodie has _ALPHA ZETA_ printed in an arc over the top of a drawn picture of the world, some random lines interspersed throughout the design. It’s not even cold outside. Liam’s probably wearing nothing underneath, like the frat boy heathen he is. Harry’s appalled that he wants to sleep with him.

There’s no queue – just a few people waiting for their ordered drinks – so when Liam leans forward with his cash and keeps his hand in Harry’s after he’s slapped down his payment, Harry only feels a little weird leaning forward to meet him.

“You had,” his voice lowers to a whisper, and the corners of Harry’s mouth quirk up without his permission, “ _marijuana_ the other night, yeah?”

Harry pulls back to look at Liam, searching his face. He looks a little uncomfortable, and Harry just wants to kiss it off his face. God, he’s such... he’s so _Liam._

“Just thought,” Liam scratches the back of his head, shrugging, and Harry realises what’s about to happen about two seconds before it does, “Maybe I could have some?” Liam scrunches up his face, “I’ll pay you, of course. But... yeah. The boys and I–”

He wants to scream, maybe run for the hills and leave this stupid country because then maybe he’ll never encounter such an infuriatingly attractive straight frat boy again.

“Alright,” Harry says loudly, trying to stop this conversation before someone other than Alexa hears and he gets fired, “We’ll talk in class, yeah?”

Liam looks relieved that he doesn’t have to explain any further, and the way his eyes glitter in the sunlight coming through the windows of the shop makes Harry’s breath catch. Just a little. Only a tiny bit.

He manages to contain himself through making Liam’s drink, and by the time he calls out Liam’s name, he’s got a professional smile back on his face and his heart is beating somewhat normally. God, he doesn’t even really _know_ Liam that well – but it’s the vibe he gives off, a peaceful kind of aura that’s so self-assured but humble, strong but gentle... Harry’s weak about it, and Alexa laughs at him once Liam’s left, the shop pretty empty for just after seven in the evening on a Thursday.

“Getting sick of people having a laugh over me, to be honest.” Harry grumbles, wiping down the spout on the machine. Alexa eyes the way he does it with mirth, and Harry drops his damp cloth quicker than he thought possible, scowling at her renewed laughter.

“You’re just too easy, Harry,” Alexa says, amusement lacing her tone, “Love you, though.”

Liam’s texted him by the time Harry next looks at his phone, the _ur ridiculus_ making Harry’s cheeks hurt because he’s smiling so much. The accompanying picture shows the _Lima!_ Harry had written on Liam’s cup. They’re meant to get names wrong, and somehow it fits Liam – cute and sweet and reminding Harry of lemurs, even if the spelling’s all wrong. And who doesn’t like lemurs? No one Harry knows, that’s for sure.

He’s feeling good about himself – he’s got this, for sure. Liam’s adorable, and hot, and Harry wants to cuddle him on a Saturday night and watch _Bake Off_ because no one else will, the Americans that they are – but Harry’s got this. Just because Liam makes his limbs all clumsy and his stomach drop doesn’t mean Harry can’t act normal around him; can’t be his best friend and laugh when he’s snogging some beautiful sorority girl at a party. He’ll keep his hook ups to himself, and Liam will try to be his wingman for girls – girls he will never find attractive, because he is unashamedly _gay_ – and Harry will tell him eventually. He’ll tell him when they’re good friends and they can laugh about the misunderstanding and Harry won’t feel like Liam might not talk to him if he says anything.

Besides, they’ve got a class to share for the rest of semester. That’s about nine weeks. Two months and a bit. Would be awkward if their bumbling friendship went sour now. Harry’s got this, definitely.

“If you’re worried he won’t talk to you because you’re gay,” Eleanor starts the next day as they settle into their seats for the meeting, and Harry readies himself for a lecture as people chat around them, “Why are you even friends with him in the first place?”

Harry winces.

“If you saw him,” He says, not cowing at her stern look, “Honestly, do I ever do this? He’s just... he’s wonderful, honestly. Hot and humble – it’s my weakness.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrow, and she looks at him discerningly.

“Well,” she begins, as if endowing him with rare wisdom, “We all fall for a straight at least once. This is your time.”

Harry glares at her, and he sees a few of the other members chuckle to themselves.

“Hey,” he says slowly, offended, “I thought this was a support group.”

“Harry,” Eleanor sighs, and he knows she’s sick of him. He’s got to prove she was never born in England, that’ll shut her up one day. Her accent is way too over the top to be real. “Some people here have actual problems.”

Harry huffs, throwing his hands up in the air in faux exasperation. He’s not stupid – he knows people come to the LGBTQA+ group meeting for support because they can’t come out, or they experienced discrimination on campus, or any number of terrible things. They don’t come to hear about Harry’s crush on straight frat boy Liam Payne – but Harry honestly can’t shut up about him, and it’s a problem. Weird, considering he can barely string two words together when he’s actually _with_ Liam.

Their class that week is no different, if only for the fact he has to fail at appearing somewhat normal for longer than their allocated ninety minutes.

“Thought you might come ‘round,” Liam says as they leave their seats. Harry’s feeling a little tired from having to restrain himself from answering questions all the time and giving his opinionated two cents. Pretending not to be interested in the class is getting exhausting, and he’s sure he’s going to break any week now. They’re not even half-way through the semester yet. Mid-terms have still yet to be sat. “The boys are keen to meet you, yeah?”

Harry’s thankful he wore plaid this week.

“So how come you joined a fraternity?” Harry asks as they make their way off campus onto Fraternity Row. He never walks this way, even if it’s not too far from his flat. It’s not his scene, especially not on a Saturday night when everyone’s getting pissed and sculling kegs or whatever it is fraternities do. Harry’s not really interested, but all the more power to them that they can partake in such antics and still turn up to class on a Monday.

Liam lights up, like he’s excited at the question. Harry’s smile feels fake on his face, and guilt seeps into his veins.

“Well, I didn’t really plan it,” Liam explains, gesturing. He’s wearing a henley today, even if the weather is mild. It’s San Diego – it’s not like it’s going to get cold like Holmes Chapel, or even London. “Half the guys on the team were involved, and even though it’s more of an American football thing, and not an _actual_ football thing, I thought it’d be a good way to get some mates.” Liam looks at Harry, grinning, “You’re sort of my first _class_ friend, actually.”

Harry laughs, chest feeling loose and breath coming easy to him as they make their way past other frat houses.

“You’re a junior, Liam.” Harry says, purple flannel feeling too warm even if it’s unbuttoned to his navel, “Surely–”

“No,” Liam laughs with him, shaking his head as if ashamed of himself, “Truly.”

He feels kind of special that Liam considers them friends, let alone that Harry’s the only friend he’s made outside of his football team and his fraternity.

They turn into a yard – unkempt, but free of detritus – and Liam turns around suddenly, almost causing Harry to run into him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Liam breathes out, and Harry realises if he weren’t wearing his suede boots that they’d be the same height probably, “Just a warning, yeah? My brothers are a bit... crass.”

Harry purses his lips, but plasters a smile on his face.

“Don’t worry, Liam,” Harry says, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing consolingly. Liam looks a little worried. “I get it. It’s a fraternity.”

“No, like,” Liam huffs, scratching at his eyebrow, “They mean well, honestly. Just like to make fun.”

“Of course,” Harry agrees, placating, trying to turn Liam around so they can get inside and the nerves flooding through Harry’s veins can settle, “That’s what mates are for, yeah?”

“Payno!” A lightly reedy voice calls out in greeting once they enter; Harry with a hand on his bag strap, the satchel bumping against his hip; and Liam adjusting his cap like he always does. “Get your fuckin’ arse in here!”

“Is this the British colonisation of the States, Liam?” Harry asks, teasing, because that voice was unmistakably Yorkshire.

“It’s part of the reason I joined,” Liam starts, words rushing together like he’s scared someone will hear, the two of them making their way down the hall toward the sounds of raised voices, “All inclusive. _Alpha Zeta_ – A to Z.”

Harry makes a thoughtful hum, something from his throat because he doesn’t really know what to say. He has his fair share of British friends – supposes it’s something to do with like attracting like. But _this_ means he doesn’t really know how to act around these particular frat boys – if they’re not frat boys at all but _lads_. It’s not that it’s bad, but that Harry knows things could maybe go south quite quickly if he’s not smart about this. It seems odd, though, that Liam’s amongst them.

When they appear in the doorway, the whole room seems to slow down. Harry sees a group of three guys around a PlayStation – one of them has a slightly pointed face, tattoos all down his arms; another has a shock of bright blonde hair and a white smile; and the last one is the perfect description of tall, dark and handsome. If Harry weren’t so into Liam, his gaze might have lingered. As it is, he gives an awkward wave from behind Liam’s shoulder.

“Lads, this is Harry. Harry, this is Louis, Niall, and Luke.” He points them out in the order Harry noticed them, and Harry gives another strange wave like he’s a serial killer trying to catch their attention or something. He stops suddenly, gripping the strap of his bag like it’s his lifesaver, his left hand twirling his rings around his fingers as a distraction.

“Right,” Louis says slowly, raising an eyebrow at Harry. He gives him a clear once over, and Harry tries not to bristle in offence at the subtle eye roll he gives. “You joining, Liam? Luke’s fuckin’ terrible.”

“Fuck off,” Luke says, and this time it’s an American accent. Well, maybe it’s not so different after all. Harry feels his shoulders drop slightly, both he and Liam coming forward to take seats amongst everyone. “I’m out. Class started twenty minutes ago.”

“Good luck with that,” Louis snorts, eyes back on the telly, fingers darting over his controller as Luke leaves the room to, presumably, go to class, “I love Wednesdays. It’s my fuck all day.”

“Thought you had Stats on a Wednesday?” Niall grits out, expression fierce as he tries to score against Louis. They’re playing Fifa, and at least Harry knows the game. Used to play with Gemma back when he visited her in Spain, a night in watching badly dubbed films on Spanish television, playing English video games when that got too annoying.

“Niall,” Louis starts, smirking as he scores against his friend, “I could do stats equations in my sleep.” Liam grabs his battered iPod from his bag as Niall scoffs in disbelief, and gets up to plug it in into the crappy computer speakers they’ve got at the dining table. The house is dated – not old, exactly, but not new, either. Harry expected worst, if he’s honest with himself. It’s got the usual mess that surrounds uni students – papers, charging electronic devices, empty plates licked dry – but is relatively clean, and Harry feels like maybe Liam’s fraternity brothers are more like Liam than he gave them credit for. As if cleanliness is a factor; but Harry just has a feeling a guy like Liam wouldn’t associate himself with drunken idiots.

 _Why don’t you tell him, then?_ A little voice pipes up, but it’s drowned out by the music that starts playing softly from the speakers.

“Liam,” Harry starts, frowning after ten or so seconds, the singing voice familiar, “Is this the album I told you about?”

“Ugh!” Louis groans, falling back against the ratty couch cushions.

“Shut up, mate,” Niall admonishes, and Harry realises he’s Irish, “I like it. This your doing?” He looks to Harry then, his blue eyes piercing, “I don’t mind it.”

Liam’s smiling, his cheeks pink in the heat of the room. Harry picks at his own shirt, feeling a little sticky.

“Yeah,” Harry says, smiling back, “Been a favourite of mine for a while.”

“Alright, Jagger. We get it, you’re as hipster as they come.” Louis snipes, and Harry raises a sardonic eyebrow.

“Let me guess,” Harry starts, tone dry. Louis may be Liam’s friend, but Harry’s not going to take this crap standing – or sitting, if the shoe fits, “You love Tom Delonge, and spend your free time at the skate park?” Louis narrows his eyes, and Harry knows his question hit the mark, “Looks like I’m not the only one who fits a stereotype. Bet you’re the one who asked for the weed, too.”

Niall cackles at that, roaring with laughter as Liam chuckles, biting his lip.

“Piss off,” Louis hisses, shoving at Niall who’s rolling around the couch, wiping fake tears from his eyes, “Whatever, bro. You better have it.”

“Not with me!” Harry cries, affronted. Liam’s frowning now. “I’m not a dealer, I don’t carry it around wherever I go.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“Stop being a wanker, Lou,” Liam scolds, and Harry holds back a guffaw at Louis’ shocked expression, “Harry’s alright. He’s my guest, yeah? Be nice. He’s been helping me with this terror of a subject.”

The floaty feeling in Harry’s bones dies.

“It’s not so bad.” He tries to reason, feeling the little dent between his brows appear.

“That’s ‘cause you’re great at it.”

“Is that the _Gender and Sexuality_ course?” Louis interrupts, seemingly over his shock. He eyes Harry critically. “You _would_ be.”

It’s muttered, the last sentence, and Harry knows Niall’s too busy laughing to have heard it, Liam too far off to the right of Louis to catch it. It wasn’t meant for anybody but Louis himself, but Harry still heard it.

Suddenly, he wants to blurt it out. Make a scene, maybe. Yell about discrimination and rights and how just because he’s gay and wants to suck Liam’s dick doesn’t mean he’d know shit all about gender or sexuality or the way they interact with music. He wants to take Liam by the face and kiss his soft lips even if it’ll get him punched.

He takes one look at the way Louis shrugs, though, when Liam confirms, and his hackles lower. It’s not the time – not in a frat house surrounded by three frat boys. Not in a place where he can’t exactly get away easily. Not that he thinks they’d be violent – just that Harry doesn’t like to feel cornered if he can avoid it.

Louis obviously doesn’t like him – and part of Harry, an old part of him that’ll always be desperate for approval and want everyone to adore him, bristles at that. But the majority of him – the parts of Harry that are new and mature and _him_ – shrugs it off. As long as _Liam_ likes him, he’s okay with it. Besides, maybe Louis being a bit of a wanker will sharpen Harry’s wit. It’s always good to practise, he reasons.

“Let’s have at it, then,” Harry challenges, taking Luke’s abandoned controller from the coffee table, “What’ve you got, lads?”

Harry manages to beat Niall with a fluke goal, Liam cheering from his spot next to him. The four of them are shoved onto the couch, and Louis looks annoyed at all the touching. The next game sees Harry lose pitifully to a smug Louis, Liam patting his shoulder consolingly.

“What?” Harry pouts upon his loss, “No hug?” He’s maybe pushing it, but this slightly touchier Liam is making him think of things he wants; and even if nothing happens, a simple, friendly hug is barely anything to ask for.

“Liam’s too manly for a hug,” Niall teases, grinning, “Thinks they’re below him or summat. Girly.”

Liam glares at him, scratching at his jaw.

“Well,” he starts, a little jerky, “I’m manly.” He gives Harry a quick sidelong glance during the pause, “In fact, I’m so manly I’ll hug a guy!” Liam pulls Harry in for a side-hug that could be better, but makes Harry’s skin stop itching so uncomfortably. The situation’s painfully heterosexual, though Harry’s not entirely sure what he expected. Either way, he indulges Liam’s warped perspective on what it means to be masculine and says nothing, basking in the affection instead.

“They’re something.” Harry states after a few matches, the two of them alone as they get to Liam’s room. He falls into the bean bag by Liam’s desk, its cover undeniably Liam in its soccer ball pattern. There’s another bed on the other side of the room, neat and tidy.

“Sorry about him,” Liam apologises, closing the door behind him before depositing his backpack at the foot of his bed. Harry’s bag is still downstairs, and he realises Louis is exactly the type of person to go through it. He remembers he’s still got flyers about the society film screening in there, but shrugs it off. So what if Louis suspects? Harry’s at the point where he’s too tired to worry about it. “He’s not usually so mean.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, small smile on his face. He knows his dimples are threatening to come out, and Liam laughs in response.

“Alright, he’s usually friendlier about his meanness.” Liam frowns, flopping down onto his bed, “Meanness – is that a word?”

“Sure,” Harry agrees glibly, wiggly around in the bean bag, “It is if you want it to be, Liam.”

Liam throws a pillow at him, and Harry laughs. It doesn’t really matter, does it? Liam’s his friend now, a proper friend. Friends usually share tales of loves and lost hook-ups, maybe – but who’s to say Harry and Liam have to?

Harry’s fine the way things are, he realises as Liam laughs into his covers, Harry almost falling out of the bean bag; Liam’s laughing, they’re having fun. It’s not a problem. Liam said he was manly enough to hug a guy, even.

 _Do you think he’s manly enough to_ kiss _one?_ A voice suspiciously like Eleanor sounds in his head.

“ _Masculinity is a prison._ ” Harry mutters fiercely.

“What?” Liam asks, finally calmed down. His hair looks adorably mussed, and his eyes look at Harry imploringly.

“Nothing.” Harry replies quickly, and this time he _does_ fall out of the bean bag, Liam’s laughter soon making him forget about his throbbing arse and bruised ego.

***

“Mid-semester break, Liam!” Harry crows as they leave their seminar a few weeks later.

“Calm down,” Liam sighs, adjusting his heavy backpack on his shoulder as they make their way towards Fraternity Row. Harry’s ignoring the pointed looks of some of the college basketball team as they pass, all of them towering over the two of them, “We’ve got to study for exams, yeah?”

“Don’t harsh my vibe, Liam,” Harry scolds him, frowning, “We have one whole week without uni!”

They’re still squabbling over it when they get to the A.Z. House, Harry dumping his bag underneath the hallway table with relish. He refuses to get his textbooks out today and given Liam’s defeated look, he thinks he’ll get away with it. Not like Liam needs much tutoring at all, anyway. Harry might be better versed in the social and political climate of certain music genres, but that doesn’t mean Liam doesn’t understand it once it’s explained.

“Alright, Styles?” Niall asks him when he walks into the kitchen, Liam hot on his heels. He offers up some of his crisps, mouth full and extremely flattering. Harry takes a handful, trying not to shove them into his mouth all at once for fear of becoming Niall.

“Alright, Nialler.” Harry replies once he’s done, offering up a high-five that he quickly turns uncomfortable, entwining their fingers. Niall scrunches up his nose, shivering out of it as Harry cackles.

It’s been a few weeks, but Harry’s been over after their seminar since that first offer. A fair few days outside of class, too, when Liam’s texted him about a quiz or a paper, or simply told him that Louis is out and he’s bored. Not that Harry’s scared of Louis – not at all – but it’s much easier to hang out with Liam (and Niall, he concedes) when he doesn’t have someone glaring daggers at him from across the room.

Besides – when Louis is around, he feels less inclined to make things awkward for Niall, and that’s such a fun game that Harry’s made it his mission to make him squirm. Niall’s not against it, per se, but he’s obviously not used to the physical affection Harry lays on him at every opportunity. It’s all part of a plan – hug Niall to death, and maybe Liam will demand the same.

It’s kind of working. Sort of. Harry’s had a few hugs, Liam turning away too quickly after they separate for Harry to be able to gauge his expression. It’s progress, he tells himself. All leading up to the big reveal.

 _Which is when, exactly?_ that snarky voice demands, but Harry carefully ignores it – instead, he grabs a banana from the fruit bowl and starts peeling. Liam’s fond eye roll leaves Harry feeling a little giddy, and so when he locks eyes with Niall as he takes his first bite, he’s basically on cloud nine; Niall choking on his swig of protein shake.

“What are you two idiots up to?” Niall chokes out, eyes watering as Liam makes up some kind of weird concoction in the blender.

“Dunno, really,” Liam comments over the noise of his vegetables churning. Harry’s all about healthy living, but he’s not sure he’d be up for whatever Liam’s making. Although, he realises, he did go on that juice cleanse his first year, hoping to avoid the freshman fifteen. He was somewhat successful, but pretty crabby for most of the time. Best not to try it again – Nick nearly cut him off entirely, his friendly texts turning into cruel jibes more often than not back then. “Thought we might check out that new bakery in the Student Union.”

He looks to Harry then in askance. Harry raises his eyebrows with a close-lipped smile, cheeks bulging comically with masticated banana.

“Ugh,” Niall groans, pushing at Harry’s face in disgust, “Well, I don’t want to crash your bro date or whatever, but I’d be up for it.”

Harry’s nerves are set alight at the phrase, but when Liam shrugs good-naturedly he relaxes. No big deal. Maybe they’ve been the butt of a few jokes – Louis making more obviously rude comments than jokes – but it’s not like they’re entirely wrong. Harry’s into Liam, but Liam’s just not into Harry.

“Nice American vernacular, Niall,” Harry comments once he’s gulped down his banana, breath short, “Soon you’ll be asking people if they’ve tried In ‘N’ Out, because _oh my God, it’s like jizz in your mouth._ ”

“What the fuck?” Niall gasps out, laughing through it. “Jizz? Fuck off!”

Liam’s sipping at his newly made drink, free hand resting on the corner of the kitchen counter. He’s looking between the two of them with interest.

Harry calms his nervous heart, gives out a laugh and flaps his hand about like he’s entirely nonchalant and not paling at his choice of words.

“Y’know what I mean,” He says, throwing his banana peel in the bin, “But yeah, mate, bakery’s goin’ t’ be good.”

The bakery _is_ good – Harry used to be a baker, so he likes to think he has an authority on these things – and they spend their afternoon trying out a few different pastries and cakes, much to the annoyance of the girl behind the counter. Normally, Harry would strike up conversation about her rainbow bracelet; but instead he keeps quiet, smiling at her extra big when he can’t help but look at her colourful hair, the bright green of it eye-catching. She sneers in response, though, and Harry frowns. He’s not used to such open hostility. He’s self-aware enough to know he seems to have a calming presence on people – that his smile and his charm means he wins most over. So her rolling eyes and snappy tone surprise him.

“What’s her problem?” Niall grumbles out of the side of his mouth when she turns to plate up their Passionfruit Curd Italian Meringue Tart, which looked entirely too tempting for them to pass up.

“Dunno,” Liam frowns, adjusting his _Alpha Zeta_ cap. He’s sporting a t-shirt today, at least – though Niall’s pasty arms are out on full display in his frat vest. Harry’s going to have to have a word with him about blinding people. “Bad day, I guess.”

“Can’t wait for this tart,” Niall continues, frown clearing, expression brightening at the thought.

“Excuse me?” The girl snaps, and Harry looks away from Liam’s amused smile to her face, which seems to be emanating a unique kind of fury. “What did you call me?”

Niall looks poleaxed, eyebrows raised.

“Sorry?” Harry gets out, frowning.

“I heard what you said,” she snaps, and her accented voice seems suddenly harsh instead of endearing, “You called me a tart.”

“What?” Niall chokes out, shaking his head, “No. Nah, you’ve got it wrong, was just–”

She doesn’t seem to be listening, though, her lips curling up into a snarl as she shoves the tart at them, sticking out her hand for the money. Harry scrambles for it, ignoring Niall’s apologies to get them away from her as soon as possible, the negative energy she’s giving off making him sweat, worried and confused.

“We’re sorry,” Harry apologises, Niall gone quiet as Harry hands over the notes, “Really. Sorry.”

They leave as quickly as they can, taking seats at a different table up the back away from the offended employee and prying, judgmental eyes.

“What was that about?” Niall says in a rush, low and quiet as they start to dig into the tart with their plastic forks. “Was just talkin’ ‘bout the food, _Jesus._ ”

Harry knows he’s got that thoughtful dent between his brows, and he’s thinking about the encounter even as Liam tells Niall to forget about it, that she was probably having a bad day and it’s got nothing to do with them. He takes a moment to look at the three of them – Liam in his cap and t-shirt, basketball shorts comfortable but entirely unfashionable; Niall in his vest, his blonde hair messy and all over the place, his joggers looking ratty and old; Harry in his ripped jeans and checkered button down, rolled up at the sleeves. His hair is a little shorter, his new haircut feeling unnatural with how much air it lets blow over his neck. It’s still long – still brushes his ears and falls in his face; but it’s not past his shoulders, not his usual look.

“Does that happen often?” Harry asks, licking at his fork to chase the last tang of passionfruit, tropical and refreshing.

“What?” Niall asks through a mouthful of pastry, “Girls goin’ batshit?”

Harry frowns at him, flicks his nose and ignores his painful squawk.

“A little,” Liam admits, “S’alright, though. Just figure we catch them off-guard or summat.”

Harry doesn’t think that’s it, though, the more he thinks about it. He’s still thinking about it when they part ways outside, Liam rolling his eyes as Harry hugs him goodbye, Niall cackling at the two of them before bringing Harry in for his own hug, manly claps of the back and all.

He considers himself a nice, friendly person for the most part. He doesn’t like everyone – that would be impossible – but he tries not to show it. Tries for politeness at all times, tries to understand everyone’s perspective.

This girl saw the three of them – two dressed in fraternity paraphernalia and Harry not looking much better – and assumed something. Harry gets it; there are a lot of crappy frats out there, and the culture alone is questionably problematic. But Liam and Niall did nothing wrong; they didn’t look at her a certain way, or make a snide comment. Niall was just Niall – eager for food, big smile on his face.

Zayn’s no help, and tells him Harry’s been hanging around frat brothers too much if he’s starting to sympathise with them.

“It’s not sympathising,” grumbles Harry, Zayn biting his bottom lip in concentration and telling Harry not to move. Harry fidgets anyway, unused to sitting for Zayn’s drawing class. Not since he was Zayn’s primary model back in first year. “I just feel bad.”

“That’s sympathising, you idiot,” The _t_ is silent, and Harry repeats it to himself with a small grin, “Just admit you’re feeling sorry for ‘em because you want your dick sucked, yeah? Easier on the both of us.”

“Hey,” Harry says slowly, offended and frowning, “I can get my dick sucked if I want. Doesn’t mean I have to sympathise with frat boys to do it.”

“Oh yeah?” Zayn starts, and his heavily lashed eyes flick up to take in the lines of Harry’s body, his briefs riding low and his bare torso littered with tattoos, “When’s the last time you pulled?”

“That’s–” Harry splutters, appalled, glaring at Zayn’s repeated insistence he not move, “That’s besides the– I’ll have you know that I’m _done_ with meaningless hook ups, Zayn.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, joints rolling under his tattooed skin as he adjusts his position, stretching his shoulders out, hand gliding across the page beneath it.

“You’ve always been done with meaningless hook ups, Haz,” Zayn tells him, and Harry wishes Zayn didn’t know him so well, “You had one in first year and then vowed you wouldn’t do it again. You’ve had one boyfriend since, and he was a fucking twat.”

“Hey!” Harry says, quicker this time. Zayn gives him a look and Harry quiets, sighing loudly. “Xander may have been a twat, but he was sweet when he wanted to be.”

“ _Christ,_ Harry,” Zayn spits out without venom, rolling his eyes, “You’ve got a type, you know that? Anne would be appalled.”

“My mum didn’t have anything bad to say about him!” Harry exclaims from his frozen position.

“That’s ‘cause your mum’s too nice!” Zayn fires back, waving his hand at Harry in his indicator that he’s done. “Like you, you wanker. Who becomes friends with frat boys because you give them the benefit of the doubt.”

“Everyone’s a friend–”

“–until they prove otherwise.” Zayn finishes, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, I know.”

There’s silence as Harry rolls his neck, brushing his right hand over his inked arm and thinking about maybe getting something new. It’s been a while, and the itch is starting underneath his skin again.

“Tomorrow night,” Zayn starts abruptly, and Harry whips his head around so hard he nearly falls off of Zayn’s bed and brains himself on his bedside table. Zayn doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe doesn’t care. Prick. “Pez wanted to go out. You coming?”

Harry thinks of Liam, who’d said he wanted to watch _Amadeus_ as preparation for their Mozart case study – a surprisingly laid back method for someone who seemed to always _want_ to study. Harry knows tomorrow night would be perfect, considering Liam’s friends still have class. Harry gets Thursdays and Fridays off, thankfully. Well, technically he doesn’t – but he doesn’t go to his classes on Friday mornings. He’s not that studious. So a film on a Thursday night with Liam wouldn’t be too bad, schedule-wise.

Zayn’s words drift to the forefront of Harry’s mind, however. Maybe he _does_ need a little distance. Just to get his priorities straight – _Hah!_ – because spending so much time with Liam and Niall (with Louis glaring at him from a corner) is maybe warping his perspective just a little.

“Alright,” he agrees, the idea seeming more appealing with every second, brightly coloured cocktails and dancing to electronic beats suddenly feeling like a fix he needs desperately. “Shall I text everyone?”

“Nah,” Zayn says, smudged hands waving about as he packs away, blowing at the excess lead on his page, “Pez’s got it covered.”

It ends up being the usual group, anyway – even if Zayn once implied Harry’s friends were all hipster twats. Not like Zayn can talk, anyway, art major that he is. He lives for the hipster life, but refuses to acknowledge he’s a part of it.

“So far in denial.” Harry muses that night given Zayn’s satisfied expression at Perrie’s choice of venue. He shakes his head with a grin. Zayn flips him off, tattooed arm around Perrie’s waist. Her purple hair changes colours in the lights of the club, and Harry feels like he could get hypnotized by her starkly blue eyes. Maybe Zayn already has been, considering the way he’s staring at her.

“Harry Styles!” Nick announces, quiff bouncing as he slings an arm around Harry’s shoulders, jostling him almost painfully. Harry’s been at the club for half an hour, maybe, and it’s been the three of them until now. Behind Nick follow Eleanor and Sophia, hands entwined and smirks on their faces. Harry hates them in that moment, because they look like they just pulled. He’s not truly angry, though – more jealous, if anything. Because it’s been a while since the mess that was Xander, and Harry’s a romantic at heart.

“Nicholas Grimshaw,” Harry announces solemnly, “welcome.”

“Oh, shove off.” Nick snipes, smiling as he pushes Harry away. “Let’s do some shots.”

Harry grins, fully on board. It’s mid-semester break. He’s allowed to indulge – and the sight of his friends in love makes him crave something sickly sweet on his lips. Maybe after the shots.

It’s safe to say that once he’s done with the shots, skin buzzing as he sips at a pineapple cocktail, he’s definitely not expecting to see Liam metres away from the dance floor.

They seem to stare at each other for a few moments, Harry’s mouth dropped open. Liam looks blank, eyes wide.

“Payno, what the fuck– _oh._ ” Louis appears next to Liam, and as soon as he sees Harry his expression closes off, eyes going hard. “What’re you doing here?”

There’s something about Louis that maybe rubs Harry the wrong way, but he’s thankful for Nick’s bubbly presence as he suddenly appears, trying to jump onto Harry’s back and laughing loudly in his ear.

“Haz!” He shouts, music pounding around them, “Hold me!”

“Get off!” Harry rolls his eyes, pushing his friend away but pulling him back in quickly, not wanting him to leave. For a club it feels quiet, but that might be the awkwardness between the two groups.

Niall appears, taking in the situation with a stunned smile on his face.

“Styles! Didn’t know you’d be out tonight. You weren’t replying to our texts.” Harry frowns.

“Sorry,” he apologises, shrugging as he twirls a ring around his thumb nervously, “Didn’t see them.”

“S’alright,” Niall says, grinning.

“Who’re these wankers?” Nick yells into Harry’s ear, and Harry winces in both pain and embarrassment. Nick maybe had a few too many shots, and if the faltering smile on Niall’s face is anything to go by, his frat friends won’t understand Nick’s humour.

Harry doesn’t really know how to explain Liam and his friends to Nick, who Harry hasn’t necessarily dared to mention them to. Nick was there for Xander, and Harry’s not sure he’d take well to Liam – even if Liam is gentler than Xander ever was, even in his best moments.

“Friends from class,” Harry explains the best he can, smiling as he leans into his friend. Niall’s got a quizzical look on his face, smile still there though it’s small. Louis is glaring again, and Liam’s still blank. “Want to join us?” Harry asks, knowing Louis will say no. He’s narrowing his eyes, mouth open to object, most likely, when Liam speaks for the first time that night.

“Yeah,” he says, rushed and low, “That’d be... yeah.”

Harry smiles at him, heart racing, as he gestures for them to follow.

“Look,” Harry murmurs into Nick’s ear – he’s sober enough to understand this, at least – “They don’t know I’m gay, alright?” Nick rears back, catching Harry’s eyes. He looks angry. “S’fine.” He assures him, “Maybe just don’t mention it, yeah?” Nick’s frowning, and Harry knows if they were alone he’d be arguing with him, confused as to why Harry – confident, unashamed Harry – is hiding a part of himself like this.

Nick nods, though, frowning. He stumbles into a seat at their table, Eleanor and Sophia all over each other as Zayn and Perrie talk amongst themselves.

Niall’s staring enough that Nick snaps at him.

“They’re not here for your entertainment.” He snipes, sneer on his face. Harry kicks him in the shin, urging him to leave it. Niall’s not like that. He’s just shocked, more like.

“‘Course,” Niall manages to get out, averting his eyes and giving a friendly grin, “Sorry.”

“Drinks!” Harry cries, trying to hold onto the vestiges of his calm, this clash of two sides of his life making his nerves sing. That’s what it feels like, anyway, even if Harry hadn’t realised it until now. He’d thought he was himself – and he was, really. Just didn’t divulge a part of his life, is all. It’s a massive part, though. He can’t believe he forgot how _much_ a part of his identity it is; that it infiltrates everything he does, even affects his social life. It’s easy to forget, he realises, when it’s been so long since people _didn’t_ know it about him. “Any takers?”

He and Niall make their way with the drink orders, and Harry’s managed to ease the air between them by the time they reach the bar.

“What brings you three here?” Harry asks, because he may not have chosen this club but he knows it’s very obviously LGBTQA+ friendly. They only go to places that are – and the _Alpha Zeta_ frat doesn’t seem like the kind that would frequent a venue like this.

Niall takes a sip of his vodka mixer before answering, “Just somethin’ different. Didn’t know you were into these places, though.”

He sounds intrigued, like the concept of Harry in such a club is so out of left field it’s almost incomprehensible.

“Yeah?” Harry chokes out, gulping down the last of his cocktail and moving onto his new one, strawberry and sweet, “S’cool place.”

He doesn’t know what else to say and so changes the subject to plans for the break, Niall detailing a possible weekend away with this girl he’s been seeing. Harry’s nodding along, taking exaggerated sips to occupy his mouth as they squeeze through the growing crowd. He almost stumbles into their table once they get to it, an apology on the tip of his tongue until he sees Nick draping himself over Liam. Something ugly settles in his gut, but Harry pushes it aside; Liam’s not his to covet, and Harry knows Nick’s not angling for a fun night with him – he’s teasing, it looks like. If he was looking to pull, he wouldn’t be nearly as blatant.

“Back off, then,” Louis tells him harshly, shoving at Nick’s lazy arms resting upon Liam’s shoulders.

“What?” Nick starts, and the flash of his white teeth lets Harry know he’s about to do something stupid. Harry sits down next to him – maybe he can stop it before it gets too bad, even if Zayn and Perrie are looking on with utmost amusement.

Harry laughs loudly, drawing the attention of their group as he grabs at Nick’s starry shirt, pulling him in to rest against his chest, his own half-buttoned, semi sheer number feeling too thin in the moment.

“I’ll cuddle with you, Nick.” Harry announces, trying not to let the fluttering of his heart be heard over the loud music.

“Payno’s a bit shy,” Niall teases, grinning around the rim of his drink as he settles into their booth, “Doesn’t like his masculinity bein’ threatened.”

Liam glares at him, and the smirk on Louis’ face indicates its some sort of inside joke Harry’s not in on. He tugs Nick closer, gulping down his cocktail until all that’s left is ice and a lone strawberry, the latter of which he eats slowly to savour it, lips feeling swollen and cold.

“Oh yeah?” Harry says once he’s done, maybe a beat too late given the way everyone’s heads turn to look at him curiously. Sophia and Eleanor seem to have left them, most likely grinding to the beat of 2007 Britney Harry can hear resonate around them. He doesn’t know what spurs him on – whether it’s the press of Nick against him and the knowledge that he’ll play along even if he’ll laugh it off later; or maybe it’s Zayn’s earlier accusations of spending too much time around frat boys; or maybe it’s the way Liam’s gaze seems too intense in the dim lighting of the club, the dirty beat thudding through Harry’s veins and making him feel adventurous and daring and, of all things, _sexy._ It doesn’t matter what it is, he realises as a cheeky grin forms on his face, his dimples no doubt making an appearance. It just matters that he does it. “Well,” he drawls, licking his lips of strawberry, “I’m no’ scared – I’ll kiss a bloke.”

He turns to Nick in that instant, their faces already too close. Nick seems to catch on just as Harry presses their lips together, moving his jaw so it’s more of an exploration than a simple peck. It feels strange, though – not sexy, like he hopes it looks; it’s like Harry’s kissing a best friend. And he is, really. He and Nick put any possible feelings they had for one another to bed _years_ ago now.

 _Gimme, gimme more!_ Britney sings, high and sultry as he brings a hand up to Nick’s jaw, angling his head so Harry can lick into his mouth briefly before pulling away. He looks at Nick for barely a second before he bursts out laughing, turning to grab at Nick’s half-finished drink and sculling it, needing liquid courage to face the rest of his friends.

“You owe me a drink, Styles,” snarks Nick, rolling his eyes, “We haven’t done that since first year.”

Harry laughs, avoiding Liam’s eyes to see Niall’s gobsmacked expression, glass at his parted lips. Louis is frowning hard next to Liam, and Perrie’s got a relaxed arm around Zayn’s shoulders, her boyfriend’s hand up at his own shoulder to loosely cradle hers.

Finally, he slides his gaze to Liam, whose eyes are boring into the bottom of his glass, his rum and coke old and probably warm.

“Never again,” Perrie pleads, “It’s like watching brothers kiss.”

Niall barks out a laugh, and Perrie grins.

The night’s... a little weird from then on in. The strange tension from the beginning of the evening seems to have dissipated, but Louis is hovering around Liam like a pet cat protective of its owner, hissing at any possible threat that nears. Harry can’t bring himself to face him for some reason, well aware of his piercing stare even when Harry’s back is turned toward the two of them.

He sticks with Nick instead, drinking away the stress of the semester and his thoughts about impending exams. He gets lost in the grind of his hips on a girl, her girlfriend behind her smirking at him. Nick’s up against some guy a metre or two away, and Harry finishes his final drink with a grateful smile at the couple before he makes his way through the throng of bodies for some air, pulling out his mobile once he’s free to text his friends.

 _Ready to go?_ He sends, then adds after only a slight hesitation, _Text us when you get home, Nick._

Perrie and Zayn tell him to meet them at the cloak room, and he knows they’re probably in the line. He looks at the time as he walks, sees it’s nearing two-thirty, and suddenly feels older than his years. Nick will rib them in the morning, talking about weak livers and married sex – like Harry’s having any sex at all. He scoffs to himself, small smile on his face.

He’s just about to start a text to Niall when someone pulls on his elbow. He whirls around, almost stumbling as his eyes dart up to see–

“Louis,” Harry greets, surprise in his tone as he frowns, “Was just about to text Niall, actually–”

“Right,” Louis cuts him off, sharp, his eyes cutting into Harry with malice. Harry bites his bottom lip, suddenly worried about what Louis is going to say. Expose him, maybe.

 _Might’ve told Liam already,_ Harry realises, _Liam’s probably trying to wrap his head around it. Thinking about all the times I hugged him or touched him and whether–_

“You need to stop using Liam.” It comes out unforgiving, Louis’ grip on Harry’s elbow like a vice, his nails digging into skin. Harry wishes he had his jacket, still cloaked.

The words sink in, then, and Harry frowns so deeply he feels like he’s made craters in his brow, forehead aching with the force.

“What?”

“I get that he’s, like,” Louis free hand comes up to twirl around, trying to convey something Harry has no idea how to translate, “whatever for you. But he’s my best mate, and this whole buddy-buddy thing’s gone on long enough.”

The sweat at the back of Harry’s ears, his hair damp and curling about them, suddenly feels uncomfortable and irritating. He wants to pull at his hair, maybe shave it all the way off at its brush against his neck. It’s infuriating in that moment, and Harry brings his left hand to push it out of his face, eyes twitching in annoyance.

“What?” he repeats for lack of anything else to say, confused and hurt and not entirely sure why his heart is beating so frantically when he’s holding his breath.

“Frats are funny, yeah?” Louis says, and it’s definitely not a question. His fringe is soft over his forehead, a complete contrast to his demeanor. “We’re all the same, of course. Misogynists with IQs the size of ants’–”

“Ants do remarkable things in their colonies, actually–”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Louis hisses, eyes flashing as his grip tightens. Harry tries not to wince, instead clenching his jaw to stop talking. “I’m a Maths major, not Biology.” He shakes his head slightly. “Point is, just because you and your friends think we’re idiots doesn’t mean we are, and fooling Liam into thinking you actually care about him is fucking disgraceful–”

“Fooling Liam?” Harry echoes, catching on a little now as a few people push past them in the bustle of the club, “What–”

“You should just leave us alone, yeah?” Louis lets go of him, jaw shifting mulishly, “We were fine before you came along.”

“I’m not going to stop being friends with Liam because you told me to,” Harry replies as calmly as he can, trying not to get frustrated at the man in front of him, “You’re not his parent. He’s an adult. He can make his own decisions.”

“Don’t be a fucking wanker, Styles.” Louis spits before shoving past him, shoulder pointy and sharp in Harry’s arm. Harry brings a hand up to rub at it. He’s likely to bruise, he reckons.

“What took you so long?” Perrie asks as he reaches them lingering next to the cloak room. He shoots them an apologetic smile and shrugs, hopping into the line to grab his jacket before joining them.

He can’t fathom it. Louis’ always had a problem with him, pretty much as soon as Harry walked through the door of their frat house. Harry had thought he might warm up him, especially after he supplied Liam with weed at a discount price, even if the concept of bribing left him vaguely uncomfortable.

But no. Apparently not. Louis dislikes Harry so intensely he warned him off Liam. He thinks Harry’s _using_ Liam, like it’s a one-way friendship and Harry doesn’t actually care about him.

He doesn’t text Niall as the three of them leave, or even as he climbs between his sheets after a shower, washing away the sweat and spilled drinks of the club. The clock reads closer to five than four, and he still doesn’t text.

There’s an insidious thought in Harry’s head as he lies awake, the sun peaking through his curtains. He’s ignoring the soft sighs coming from Zayn’s room as the thought permeates throughout his entire being, his veins thrumming with it in a sinister rhythm.

 _Is_ he using Liam?

Harry thinks of the way Liam makes him feel – warm and appreciated, and like Harry belongs even in the most peculiar groups of his frat brothers, some of them eyeing Harry sceptically. He’s become such a good friend in such little time, and Harry knows that maybe he’s been deliberately misinterpreting things. He’s crushing on Liam, has been since that first day.

 _Doesn’t mean I’m using him, though,_ Harry tells himself, turning to face his wall, the dark purple making him feel everything but royal like he originally intended, declaring his bedroom a place for kings like the nineteen year old twat he used to be. _We’re friends._

The thought stays with him, though, even as he gets out of bed with the sun. He sees a text or two from Niall, incoherent, and one from Liam – and doesn’t reply. The thought stays with him the rest of the day, and when Liam asks him to come over for film night he politely declines.

He’s not using Liam. _He’s not._ And he’s going to prove it.

***

The door keeps opening but Liam doesn’t come through. First it’s that girl who sits in the front row, her septum piercing glinting in the morning light. Then it’s that guy with the insanely skinny legs. Then it’s group after group of friends and Liam doesn’t emerge, doesn’t come through that door with a tired smile even though it’s four o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday.

 _wont b in,_ Harry receives exactly seventeen minutes after the professor arrives and begins talking about the impact of the AIDS epidemic on 80’s music, _sick w flu :( c u nxt wk_

Harry’s staring at his phone, the words blurring before he shoves it in his back pocket, gathering up his laptop as quick as he can and pushing it into his satchel, standing from his desk and making his way past his peers much to the notice of their professor, who continues lecturing with a raised eyebrow but otherwise ignoring Harry’s struggle past uneven chairs and awkward desks.

He stumbles out of the room and walks so quickly down the hallway and out onto the campus that he’s drawing looks from students who don’t have class, hanging around the small football pitch near his building, a few standing around coffee carts. He’s basically running after a few minutes, and ignores the call of “Run, Forrest! Run!” that follows him as he passes a group of muscular types.

Panting, Harry opens up the front door of the A.Z. House without preamble once he gets there. He drops his satchel in its usual place underneath the hallway table but keeps his plastic bag, taking the stairs two at a time up to Liam’s room.

He stops right before he opens it, composing himself. He takes a few deep breaths, pushes his hair behind his ears and wipes his face with a palm, tired and hopeful.

Knock, knock.

“Who ‘s it?” A rough voice calls, and Harry winces at the way it seems to scrape out of Liam’s throat.

He doesn’t bother announcing himself, merely opens the door and peeks his head in.

Liam’s room is a mess, and his roommate’s side seems empty, as if they’ve vacated since Liam came down with the flu, scared of getting infected when they’ve got mid-terms next week.

“Last class before our exam, Liam,” Harry says, smiling, as if it hasn’t been a week since Harry contacted him, “And here I am, bringing you soup.” He moves more completely into the room, brandishing his bag.

Liam’s head pokes out from underneath his duvet, and Harry’s heart pangs at the sight of his greasy hair and the dark circles under his eyes. He looks so poorly, and Harry feels like it’s his fault, even if his radio silence has no way of infecting Liam in any way.

“Look at you,” Harry says softly, shuffling over to crouch down and rest a hand on Liam’s damp curls. He wrinkles his nose, and Liam huffs out what Harry supposes is meant to be a laugh, burrowing further underneath the covers.

“You look like you ran here.” Liam croaks out, frowning as he speaks. He coughs into his covers, and Harry vows to wash them sooner rather than later. The laundry in the A.Z. House isn’t the best, but it’s passable and so it’ll have to do for now. Harry prefers the laundromat near his flat, to be honest, but that’s not exactly economical right now.

“Maybe I did,” Harry says, trying to lighten the mood even though he’s telling the truth, “Maybe I made a fool of myself at the soup shop, too – unable to decide what would be spicy enough to clean out your sinuses, but not too spicy that you’ll be crying.”

Liam huffs out again, his tired smile reaching his eyes this time.

“I would’ve made something myself,” Harry begins, taking out the hot soup from the plastic bag as Liam shifts to sit up, looking weak and strung out, “But time is of the essence.”

Liam takes the container of soup gingerly, eyes darting to Harry’s curiously.

“Thanks, Haz,” he whispers, licking at his chapped lips, “Andy took off as soon as I showed signs of it.” Liam continues at Harry’s confused frown, “Psych major. Couldn’t afford to miss his practicals next week.”

“Hmm,” Harry hums, trying not to judge. He guesses he’s more inclined to play nurse than a lot of other people, some sort of weird instinct his mother ingrained in him. Probably because for all she’s a great mum, she hates doing it herself. “Well, I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

Liam eats the soup, looking better with every mouthful. Harry replaces his tissue box, and cleans up his used ones with a hand he quickly sanitises after. He straightens up Liam’s room and goes through that week’s chapter in the textbook, taking notes with Liam’s help and then copying them onto Liam’s laptop. He pops downstairs into the kitchen to make Liam some toast, buttering it lightly before pouring a huge glass of water, bringing that and the full plate up to Liam’s room. The house is pretty sparse – he sees Luke in the hallway and says hello – and Harry asks Liam why as he sets down the food and water on his bedside.

“S’cause I’m sick, innit,” Liam says through a mouthful. Harry raises an eyebrow at him, and he looks apologetic, muttering ‘sorry’ before continuing, “Also, mid-terms. Everyone’s in the library.”

“Really?” Harry asks, feeling a little guilty he’s not in the library now that Liam’s mentioned it.

“Well,” Liam begins, smiling, “Just because they’re in the library doesn’t mean they’re _studying,_ does it?”

Harry laughs, finally peeling off his coat in the warmth of the room. He makes sure Liam’s wrapped up in his covers before he opens a window, blissful cool air flowing through.

“How’re you, then?” asks Liam once he’s finished with his toast, wiping at the crumbs on his mouth absentmindedly. He shifts, moving his pillow before leaning back against it, back hitting his wall.

“M’fine, Liam,” Harry answers, smiling as he seats himself in the football bean bag.

“Yeah?” Liam prompts, staring down at his covers before looking back up to lock eyes with a wary Harry. “Where’ve you been?”

There’s a short moment where Harry thinks he should tell the truth, maybe. Come clean about all of it – it’d surely be easier, and the guilt in his gut would probably dissolve into nothing.

But Louis’ words come back to him, and memory of the way Liam had looked when Harry had pulled away from Nick, his eyes averted and his shoulders tense... he pushes the desire aside, giving a soft smile to Liam as he settles into the bean bag more comfortably.

“Skyped with my mum,” he says, which is true, “Hung out with some mates,” again – true, “Studied a bit,” a little true, “Finally watched _Amadeus._ ”

“Oi!” Liam exclaims, though there’s a smile on his pale lips, “Wanker, you were meant to wait for me.”

“I’m joking, Liam,” Harry admits through a grin, crossing his arms. His dark green, long-sleeved shirt feels a little constricting even with the cool breeze coming in through the window, but his jeans are as comfortable as ever. “Of course I’m waiting for you. At this rate we’ll never watch it.”

Liam perks up, a little more pink coming into his wan cheeks, “How ‘bout now?”

They settle in with Liam’s laptop between them on his bed, Liam bundled up in his sheets as Harry lies on top. He’s feeling hot now, something about Liam’s person being so close in such an intimate setting – the two of them alone on his bed, though Harry tries not to think of it like _that_ – and he hesitates only a fraction before he pulls his shirt up over his head, throwing the flimsy material toward the abandoned bean bag and leaning back against the wall, shifting against the extra pillows they placed there.

Harry turns his head to see Liam, eyes a little round, mouth parted slightly in confusion.

“S’hot,” Harry tries to explain, though it sounds odd even to his own ears, “This is okay, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Liam croaks, clearing his throat to get rid of its hoarseness. “All good, Haz. Just a shirt.” He pauses, eyes flicking down Harry’s chest before coming back up, “Didn’t know you had so many tattoos, though.”

“Oh!” Harry exclaims, grin breaking free on his face, “Yeah, I forget about them sometimes. Had them for years.”

“Hmm.” Liam hums thoughtfully, pressing play on the movie. Luckily their internet’s good, because three hours of Netflix would’ve been troublesome otherwise.

“ _Mozart!_ ” Salieri cries, and Harry pretends he hasn’t seen this before, thoughtful frown on his face, “ _Mozart! Forgive your assassin! I confess, I killed you!_ ”

“Grim.” Harry mutters, trying not to laugh at Liam’s chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Jeez,” Liam breathes as they cart Salieri out in a stretcher, “Bit intense.”

“Hmm,” Harry agrees, not thinking of the end of the film and their use of _Requiem,_ “Just a bit.”

They watch the whole movie like that, back and forth with murmured commentary. Harry feels himself creep closer subconsciously until he realises his hand’s resting lax in the crook of Liam’s elbow. Liam doesn’t seem to notice, and Harry breathes a shaky sigh of relief, skin prickling up in goosebumps at the thought of being called out. He settles back into Liam, their sides pressed up against each other. Liam’s soft and warm, and his even breaths make Harry calm down, even if he is unusually aware of his right hand.

When Salieri burns his cross, Harry’s left hand automatically goes to his own, lifting the metal to his lips to mouth at.

“Y’alright?” Liam murmurs, turning his head to look at Harry. Harry imitates him, and they’re so close, Liam’s eyes focusing on the cross between Harry’s teeth.

“Yeah,” Harry answers, spitting out his cross, eyes searching Liam’s face. There’s a weird air about him, like Liam’s unsure about something. Maybe he doesn’t know why Harry chews at his necklaces, or maybe he’s confused about the film.

“ _I don't like to talk against a fellow musician,_ ” Salieri says, and Harry jumps a little, his eyes glimpsing the sudden brightness of the screen with the new scene. The moment’s lost, then, and Harry focuses back on the story – on Salieri’s bitterness, and his manipulation of Mozart; a man who so effortlessly composes masterpieces without thought as to how he may seem to others, brash and irritating and entitled.

“D’you think this is how he wrote it?” Harry asks an hour or so later as Salieri writes down Mozart’s composition, asking for clarification, eyes wild.

“What do you mean?” Liam whispers back, eyes intent on Mozart’s sweaty face, peaky with fatal illness as he gestures wildly.

“Like,” Harry murmurs, leaning in, “d’you think he went mad with it?”

Liam waits for a moment, watching the scene unfold, and only replies once the music takes over, a horse and carriage pulled through the night.

“I think,” Liam muses, frowning in thought, “Well, artists, yeah? We all... sort of... go mad with it. You have to,” he clarifies at Harry’s inquisitive glance, “to make something out of nothing – to make something out of nothing that means... well, _something._ ”

“Eloquent, Liam.” Harry teases, tamping down a grin at Liam’s wry look.

“Shut it. I’m not saying we’re Mozart – not at all, bloody hell,” Liam huffs out, eyes wide, “But, like, I get it. You put yourself in it, and by the end you don’t get everything back. Would make you go mad if you were Mozart, wouldn’t it?”

Wolfgang sits in bed, sickly, singing his death anthem in a fever dream.

“S’pose.” Harry admits quietly.

It’s not a happy film – not usually the kind that Harry would rewatch, at any rate – but the thought of Liam’s face at the end of it, and the reality he witnesses; well, it’s very much worth another three hours, Harry feels.

“Intense, yeah?” Harry comments, letting out a breath, long and deep.

“I thought you said you hadn’t seen it before.” Liam remarks, turning to look at Harry as the credits roll. Their faces aren’t so close now – Harry’s left leg is bent, his arm resting on top. He’s not leaning into Liam anymore, and his skin feels sensitive and a little cool. Liam’s still wrapped in his duvet, but his cheeks are pink, no longer chalky with flu.

“Never said that,” Harry retorts, smirking, “May have implied it, though.”

Liam rolls his eyes and gives Harry a weak shove, trying not to smile.

“S’better this way,” Harry explains, “Didn’t have to read the Wikipedia article to remember what happened, did I?”

“That was _three hours,_ Haz.” Liam states, tone perplexed.

“But I had you, Liam,” Harry replies, feeling warm and relaxed, a small smile on his face that Liam returns, tentative and fond, “Made it more interesting.”

***

Things change after that, though Harry can’t explain how, or more importantly _why._

It’s like by taking care of Liam when he was sick – he’s better within twenty four hours of Harry’s soup, which Harry won’t stop bragging about – and watching a film about jealous eighteenth century composers with him, Harry solidified something about their relationship.

Liam’s calling him up randomly, even if they only live fifteen minutes from each other. They’ll talk for hours – Harry will be making dinner, or studying, or trying to read, or listening to music – and they don’t even notice the time. Liam comes over a few times but Harry mostly spends his time at the _Alpha Zeta_ House. Zayn’s territorial about their flat, and Harry likes to hang out with Niall whenever Liam’s too busy to talk with him – which isn’t often, and mostly only happens when Liam has a paper he forgot to write, or a quiz he forgot about.

Niall’s a good laugh, though; he even makes comments about Louis’ dirty looks sometimes, and Luke joins them for a Fifa game or two.

Mostly, though, Harry and Liam spend a lot of time together. Alone.

There’s frozen yoghurt Fridays where, instead of going out to get pissed with Niall and his Irish crew – somehow there’s an Irish crew in San Diego – they go out for frozen yoghurt. Liam’s last mid-term was on Friday, and that’s when the tradition started. Harry tries increasingly absurd combinations every week, Liam refusing to waste his money like that and always going for chocolate. Harry ends up abandoning the more disgusting tubs of yoghurt and sharing with Liam when necessary, drawing looks from a few people. They bump into Sophia and Eleanor one day – Saturday brunch, because they’d missed a Friday and were determined to keep up the event. Sophia had smiled big and wide, and Harry had stirred his yoghurt petulantly at the way Liam seemed so engrossed in his conversation with her. Eleanor smirked at him as they left, and Harry felt like he’d just been scolded for eating his sweets before dinner.

They go to a film marathon at the Student Union, bringing pillows and blankets for the hard hall floor. Niall and his pseudo girlfriend join them, and Harry tries not to think of it like a double date in any way. He’s simply content to lean into his pillows and watch a young Mike Wazowski dream of being a Scarer, hot chocolate in hand.

It’s when he turns up at Liam’s football practice after an invite and Liam just introduces him with “Lads, this is Harry,” that he’s starting to think maybe their relationship has taken a turn for the worst. It’s not that Harry doesn’t like spending time with Liam – in fact, it’s the complete opposite. And that’s the entire problem.

Because Harry feels like they’re dating. He truly feels like if he’d held Liam’s hand as they’d gotten frozen yoghurt last week, it wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary. When Liam doesn’t even say ‘my friend Harry’, Harry feels like he’s just not saying something else, something he probably doesn’t even realise. He’s at Liam’s football practice a few weeks after mid-terms, and Harry feels like he should probably go sit with a group of girls he sees on the top bleacher, huddled together for warmth. Girls that are probably the girlfriends of Liam’s team mates.

He ends up doing it, because it’s better than sitting by himself, huddling into his coat with his beanie over his curls and trying not to freeze his arse off for the straight boy he’s severely fancying.

“How did you meet Liam?” One of them asks, her black hair curly and wild and blowing in the wind.

“Uh,” Harry stutters, blowing on his hands like he’s not trying to stall because his brain is stuck on the fact it sounds like they think he’s Liam’s boyfriend, “Met this semester, actually. Had the same music class.”

“So you’re both music majors,” she comments, smiling bright, “That’s the same with René and me. Not music, but we’re both German majors. But we met through a friend.”

Harry laughs, something hollow and cold as his eyes follow Liam on the pitch, his sports skins outlining his muscular frame beautifully. Harry shifts his gaze to his lap, crossing his arms as his legs bounce up and down, trying to will away his feelings by pure force of will.

“You know,” Harry starts fives or so minutes later, Selena (he remembers her name suddenly) huddling into him now, “You’d think I’d be better at football considering how much I know about it.”

Selena laughs, looping her arm through Harry’s, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets. His curls have grown a bit, and they sway in the light wind, his beanie holding down the rest.

The others are talking amongst themselves, a little separated from them. Harry’s thankful for the reprieve from the interrogation, and shuffles closer to Selena to keep them warm.

“I don’t know why I come,” Selena says, her American accent seeming strange and foreign every time she speaks. Harry needs to hang out with his American friends more, he’s spent way too much time around those from across the pond. “René doesn’t need me here. I could be in bed right now, watching Netflix.”

“I don’t mind it,” Harry remarks, watching as Liam makes a particularly aggressive tackle in their short friendly match, “Not as used to the cold as I used to be, though.”

“Oh, screw you,” She says, laughing, “Just because I’m a shitty girlfriend, complaining like this.”

Harry shakes his head, trying not to smile, wry and sarcastic.

Liam comes up to them at the end, cheeks flushed red and panting.

“Alright, then?” He asks, eyes flitting down to Harry’s arm around Selena’s shoulders.

“Yeah, mate,” Harry answers, pulling away and ignoring Selena’s raised eyebrow, “You ready to go?”

“Give me a minute,” He says, looking over his shoulder to wave at a team mate, “Just got to organise next practice.”

“Well,” Harry announces loudly, half the other girls too occupied with their boyfriends to notice, “It was lovely to meet you, Selena.”

Selena’s smiling, and Harry imagines if her skin wasn’t so dark he’d see a pleased flush in her cheeks.

“You too, Harry,” she replies, standing as well, “I’ll see you next week, okay?”

She walks away toward a tall, blond bloke – René – before Harry can correct her.

 _How am I going to explain this?_ He thinks, scuffing his boots against the grass, _Yeah, about that, Liam – didn’t mean to make Selena think I’m your boyfriend. It’s just that I’m sat with her and the other girlfriends of your team mates, and no one seems to bring their friends like you have, and my crush on you must be obvious from space because Selena knew in a_ second–

“Brilliant,” Liam huffs out, jogging up to Harry. He’s got a thick, baggy hoodie on now. Surprisingly, it’s got nothing to do with his frat. “Let’s go. I’m dying for a shower.”

Their arms nudge each other as they walk, Liam telling him about the odds of their match on Saturday. Harry has class in an hour, so he walks to the A.Z. House with Liam and snags some fruit from the kitchen, saying hello to Louis, who simply leaves the room. There are a few others lingering about, and Harry has a conversation or two with some of the younger ones before Liam emerges, freshly showered in a new hoodie and dark jeans. He’s got a beanie on his head, and his backpack hangs off his shoulder.

Harry finishes up his fruit and picks up his bag from underneath the hallway table, and they walk to the Arts building at the back of campus.

Liam leaves him once they pass the library, giving him a hug in farewell.

“I’ll see you after, yeah?” He clarifies, pulling down on his beanie, “I’ll be in the Anderson study pods.”

“Sure,” Harry says, and then he smirks, “And you’ll actually be studying, right?”

Liam flips him off as he walks away, almost crashing into someone in his efforts to walk backwards. Harry sniggers, heart feeling big and bursting as he turns to make his way to his poetry elective.

He ends up writing some sappy piece in their freeform twenty minutes, scrunching it up into a ball as tight as he can and shoving it into the deep recesses of his satchel, never to see the light of day again. Harry thinks of Mozart, and Salieri, and how apparently he can’t compose anything to save his life unless it’s about the melted chocolate of Liam’s eyes or the smudge of his birth mark. Scowling, his mood turns sour by the end of the lecture, and Harry trudges through the wind tunnel between the main halls and the Communication building to Mozart’s _Dies Irae_ , feeling morose and dramatic.

Zayn would be laughing if he knew, but he’s probably holed up in a studio somewhere, cursing over his art. Harry can’t even feel vindictively smug at the thought.

Liam’s scrolling through Facebook when Harry arrives, and Harry doesn’t even bother unpacking his things.

“Bakery,” he blurts out, feeling tired and homesick all of a sudden, memories of a freshly baked brownie from the bakery in Holmes Chapel prompting an abrupt craving, “I need a brownie, Liam.”

Liam’s face lights up at the thought of chocolate, and he packs up in mere seconds and then they’re on their way, Harry avoiding conversation about his failed poetry and asking Liam about his progress on his composition instead. Liam scowls at the reminder, and Harry feels like they’re on even footing again, his mood lifting dramatically as he playfully nudges Liam with his shoulder.

It dips once they reach the bakery. Class is in session, so there are only a few people hanging around early evening, the bakery about to close in an hour or so. There’s no queue, and Harry sees the green-haired girl from however many weeks ago, blank expression on her face as she stares into space.

Liam doesn’t notice until they’re right at the counter, and by then it’s too late.

“Oh,” The girl says upon seeing them, and suddenly Harry feels awkward in his jeans (not ripped this time) and nylon jacket, his desire for something 80’s inspired feeling out of place at that moment. He shouldn’t have switched it at Liam’s. “It’s you.”

“Yes,” Harry replies, trying to think of something to say that won’t offend her more, glancing at Liam worriedly, “Us. Erm, do you have any brownies?”

“That depends,” she says, and Harry’s stomach clenches nervously, “Are you and your friend going to be assholes?”

“Haz,” Liam says quietly from slightly behind him, “Let’s just go, yeah?”

Harry ignores him.

“We said we were sorry,” Harry tries to explain, pleading with her, his eyes wide. She doesn’t look convinced, “Honestly. It was a misunderstanding–”

“I don’t think I misunderstood that you and your friends were trying to hit on me,” This girl says, and Harry wants to grimace at the sharp tone of her voice. He’s not the best at confrontation, not when it involves people he doesn’t know. He can make a comment under his breath to himself, but saying it to someone’s face is an entirely different story. “In the most demeaning way ever.”

“Look,” Harry says, pushing his hair away from his face, “That’s not what happened–”

“Isn’t it?” she asks, and Harry knows it’s rhetorical but he can’t help himself.

“ _No,_ it’s not.” He urges, and suddenly it’s flowing out of him like this girl with green hair and a rainbow bracelet opened the floodgates of his thoughts and feelings from the past few months. “I’m gay, alright? I wasn’t hitting on you. And my mates are decent, yeah? They wouldn’t. We just wanted a pastry.” He huffs out a breath through his mouth, his fingers feeling a little tingly, “Now I’m cold, and I’m craving a brownie. So can I _please_ have a brownie?”

The shop’s basically empty. There’s a guy in the corner huddled in a coat and a beanie, and then there’s Harry and Liam. The green-haired girl is, of course, behind the counter.

The silence still feels deafening, though. It takes Harry a moment to realise what he’s said, and it’s only once the girl blushes crimson, muttering an apology.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, heart panging painfully.

“Erm, actually.” He interrupts the girl searching for a brownie in the glass case next to the counter, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll– see you.”

“Harry–”

Harry turns and almost runs from the bakery, trying not to look back at Liam’s no doubt shocked face. He almost ends up on Fraternity Row by habit, laughing to himself once he realises and quickly changing his route back to his flat instead, feet feeling heavy. Not even blaring Travis can cheer him up, and he ends up shoving his headphones into his jeans pocket a little bitterly, walking the rest of the way in silence.

Zayn’s not in when Harry gets home, but Perrie is. She takes one look at his face and holds out her arm. Harry lands on the couch heavily, his face crashing into her neck.

“Everything’s–” He sighs, unable to put it to words exactly what’s happened and how everything’s going to change.

“It’ll work out, Haz.” Perrie’s left hand rests in his curls, gentle and soothing.

They spend the afternoon watching crappy American television, tea shared between them. Harry eats a bland dinner of toast and marmite before he cleans his teeth and gets into bed early. He doesn’t want to check his phone, but he can’t resist.

 _Can you skype??_ came in from Gemma twenty minutes ago, and Harry logs in and hits call before he does anything else, his laptop resting on his stomach.

“Harry?” Gemma’s voice comes through his speakers, and Harry almost cries at the sound but holds himself back, not quite ready for ridicule he’ll never live down.

“Gems,” Harry chokes out, grinning, “I’m so happy to see you.”

Her blonde hair comes into view, and then she turns and her lovely face is on his screen.

“Charming angle, darling.” Harry looks down to the little box in the right hand corner and laughs, his nostrils widening even more with it.

“My very best,” he tells her, grinning still before continuing, “I’ve missed you.”

“Wouldn’t know, would I?” She says, grinning as well, “You barely call!”

Harry frowns.

“I’m sorry, Gemma,” He apologises, sincere and sad, “I just... I feel worse when you ring off. I try not to call too much.”

“Well, that’s bullocks,” Gemma says, but he sees the understanding on her face, “Ever thought I might miss you, too? Idiot.”

He laughs, and if a tear leaks from the corner of one of his eyes, Gemma’s kind enough not to mention it.

They chat for longer than they have since Harry started third year. Gemma’s got stories from Spain that he loves to hear, and he promises if he gets up enough money from his job at Starbucks that he’ll visit. Though he reminds her that it’s more expensive coming from California than it is from England.

“Maybe I’ll visit you, then,” She compromises, yawning, “You can parade some fit boys around for me.”

Harry scrunches up his nose, put off.

“Why’re you up so late, anyway?” Harry asks, hoping to change the subject.

“My roommate and her boyfriend won’t stop having sex.” Gemma explains, deadpan. She pauses, and Harry can hear some vague banging.

“ _Jesus,_ ” replies Harry, “At least Zayn and Perrie _try_ to be quiet.”

“Europeans, love,” Gemma sighs, shaking her head, “But what about you? Any lovers on the horizon?”

He must pause just long enough for Gemma to catch on, because she sits up like she’s had an electric shock.

“Harry!” She exclaims, a lewd grin on her face, “Why didn’t you say?”

Harry looks off to the side, trying not to remember what happened mere hours ago.

“Oh,” Gemma says after a still moment, and somehow the feminine moans coming from her end just make Harry sadder, “ _Harry._ Little bro. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Harry chuckles, waving her away though he wipes at his face as soon as he can, shaking his head, “It’s my fault. He didn’t– he didn’t exactly know I was gay, so...” He shrugs, smiling. “It’s my own fault, really.”

“Well,” Gemma states, “I wish you’d told me in person. I fucking hate this long-distance crap. Can’t hug you all better, can I?” Harry gives a wet laugh, and Gemma smiles softly at him. “It’ll be alright, Haz. I’m sure... I’m sure he won’t mind, y’know? Sometimes it’s just a shock.”

A voice inside him urges him to mention how they were practically dating before he said the fateful words aloud, but somehow the rational part of him doesn’t think it’ll change anything. Gemma can’t ever understand, even if she tries – even if he’s thankful for her comforting words.

“It’s not like you watched _Bake Off_ with him on a Saturday night,” Gemma jokes, and he imagines her pinching him if she were in his room right now, “Your cheesy litmus test.”

Harry is proud of himself. He doesn’t shed a tear at that.

“ _Oh, Haz._ ” Gemma says, and he hates the tone of her voice.

“You’re right,” he tells her instead, voice only a little shaky, “It’s just the shock. I’m sure we can stay friends.”

He saves his tears for when he rings off a little later, falling silent and slow into his pillow.

When he wakes the next day after a night of troubled sleep, he realises it’s Wednesday. Which means he has _Music, Gender, and Sexuality_ at four o’clock.

It’s a little warmer than it’s been, and so Harry wears green plaid over a t-shirt, jeans tight and boots almost worn through. He shoves a beanie over his greasy hair and hopes the bags under his eyes aren’t too noticeable. Maybe Liam won’t turn up to the seminar at all – that would be a blessing.

He’s early, as he has a tendency to be – and he should have planned this better, arrived late so he could avoid Liam’s seat like the embarrassed teenager he feels like. Instead, he witnesses the very moment Liam walks in, jeans and t-shirt looking heavenly on him. He witnesses the very moment Liam glimpses him, face flicking through so many emotions before settling on determined as he strides over, taking his usual seat.

“Hey, Haz,” he says, normal and without malice. It’s not like Harry expected hostility, but he didn’t expect Liam to pretend it had never happened, either. He reels back a little, heart squeezing painfully.

He guesses, however, that if that’s how Liam wants to play it, Harry’ll take it – he’d rather _some_ of Liam than none at all. They can still be friends, it seems. Harry just probably won’t come around as much, which – fair. Harry gets it. Even if Liam’s alright with it, Harry essentially lied to him for weeks.

A lie by omission, but a lie nonetheless.

“You’ll come ‘round, yeah?” Liam asks him, nonchalant, once the professor dismisses them with a reminder about their quiz next week. Liam must glimpse Harry’s shocked face, because he hurries to clarify. “For the quiz. Thought we could study.”

Harry gives a small smile, nods because if he declines he’ll have to give a reason and he _doesn’t have one._ Not one that’ll withstand scrutiny, anyway.

They don’t really talk on the way to the house, and Harry’s nerves are positively buzzing by the time they walk through the front door, not really knowing what to expect but somehow still hoping for a positive result. He dumps his bag in its usual place after a moment of hesitation, pushing his beanie off his head to stuff it in his back pocket, running a hand through his curls with the stress of it all.

Harry interrupts Liam before he can say anything, the look on his face seeming dangerous and like Liam might just end Harry there and then.

“Upstairs?” He asks, not even bothering to pull his laptop from his bag. His textbooks are in Liam’s room, anyway.

 _God,_ Harry thinks, chest tight, _it really_ was _like he was my boyfriend._

Liam follows him up, and Harry’s just passed Louis’ room when Liam pulls on his arm and then they’re hugging, Harry’s arms limp at his sides as Liam’s form a vice around his torso, squeezing until Harry can barely breathe.

“I’m– I’ll hug a bloke, yeah?” Liam says, and Harry frowns as he pulls away, staring at Liam quizzically.

“I’ll kiss one, too,” Liam rushes out, and Harry’s forehead goes smooth, his jaw clenching. “ _No,_ Haz,” Liam insists, grabbing Harry’s cheeks between his big hands and pulling his face back toward him, their eyes locking, “You’re not listening. _I’ll kiss a bloke._ ” His eyes dart between Harry’s, desperate for him to understand.

Harry opens his mouth to ask what the bloody hell Liam’s on about when Liam’s lips crush his own, the angle awkward and wrong considering Harry’s mouth was partly open and Liam just _came_ at him.

Harry’s in shock for a few long moments before he pushes at Liam’s shoulder gently, pulling away.

“ _Liam,_ ” he starts warningly, his voice threatening to break.

“No, you _still_ don’t get it.” Liam huffs, shaking his head with a wry smile, “Harry,” he says, and he’s smiling proper now, adorable and crinkly-eyed, “I’ll date a guy. I’ll date a man. Male. Man.”

It’s like Harry’s brain went on holiday. He can’t quite process the words coming from Liam’s pink lips, the scratch of his stubble still making Harry’s face prickle.

“Look,” Liam starts, shifting back but dragging his hands down Harry’s face to his neck, thumbs brushing underneath each side of the hinge of Harry’s jaw, “I didn’t know either, alright? You are... _so_ hard to read.” His laugh is light, relieved.

“Wait,” Harry interrupts, frowning, “You’re... you’re gay?”

“Bisexual,” Liam tells him, smile on his face, “And very much wanting to date a man.”

“And that man is me?” Harry confirms slowly, still frowning.

“ _Yes,_ Harry,” Liam says, eternally patient, “That man is you.”

“Wait,” Harry tries again, and Liam rolls his eyes.

“ _Jesus,_ and I thought I was the slow one.”

“Hey,” Harry admonishes softly, slow, smile gradually growing on his face, “You’re not slow.”

“Maybe on the uptake,” concedes Liam, and suddenly Harry gets it. His heart flips in his chest, lungs expanding so much he feels like he could float. His cheeks start to hurt with the strength of his grin, and he really, really wants to kiss Liam.

“I had such a row with Louis at the bakery,” Liam explains, and Harry’s focus diverts from his lips to his eyes, “He was there, you know. At the back. He saw the whole thing and came up trying to tell me it was for the best. I had a go at him, nearly shouted myself hoarse.” He laughs, eyes bright and warm, “We’re alright now, but he was being a prat to you from the beginning. Bloody jealous, he was. Thought you were going to steal me away or something.”

“I just wanted to date you.” Harry explains feebly, and Liam grins, big and beautiful.

“I wanted to date you, too,” Liam tells him, and Harry’s veins feel hot and bubbly at the news, “The ‘manly’ stuff threw me off, though.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Harry says, shame flooding his cheeks. He ducks his head. “Oh, no. I’m sorry, I was a twat. I was trying to show you, like, that it was okay,” He looks at Liam, head lifting, “To be affectionate. I wanted to hug you all the time.”

“Your mind works in mysterious ways, Harry,” Liam states, staring, “How on Earth would I have been able to get that from you kissing Nick?”

Harry groans, embarrassed, burying his head into Liam’s warm and muscly shoulder.

“We’re both idiots,” he says into Liam’s shirt, voice muffled, “You’re the one who sneak dated me the past few weeks.”

He hears spluttering, lifting his head to see Liam’s mouth open and close like a fish.

“Niall tried to do the double date–”

“I knew it!” exclaims Harry.

“–and I just got this idea in my head... I don’t know, Haz. This is so complicated.”

 _What are they even doing?_ Harry thinks to himself, burying his laughter into Liam’s neck, _There needs to be a lot more kissing going on._

“There needs to be a lot more kissing going on.” He says, just for the record. Harry thinks he might still be in shock, the reality of Liam returning his feelings like something out of a fever dream. Suddenly and irrevocably, he thinks of Mozart; composing his final piece from his deathbed, fevered and reverent, mad with sickness and artistry.

God, he hopes he’s not dying in a bed somewhere.

Liam kisses him then, and Harry forgets about eighteenth century composers altogether, the echo of _Requiem_ in his head sounding sanguine instead of mournful.

“If you’re going to snog, can you at least do it in Liam’s room?”

They pull apart, and Harry looks past Liam to see Louis’ head poking out of his bedroom, hair mussed like he’s been sleeping.

Harry flips him off.

Louis’ eyes narrow, and he slams his door with a bang.

“Please don’t antagonise him.” Liam pleads as Harry’s gaze slides back to him.

“Oh, Liam,” Harry says, leaning in so their lips brush, thinking of his sister’s noisy roommate, “You’ve no idea how much fun this is going to be.”

***

“I’ll pay you,” Louis begs him, “Actual money, Harry. I’ll pay you money to stop. Please,” he closes his eyes, slow and weathered, “I’m so tired.”

“Hmm,” Harry hums, pretending to think about it, “No.”

“Harry,” Liam warns him, though his laughter ruins the effect, “Maybe we should–”

“Nope!” Harry announces cheerily, leaning against Liam’s doorjamb in just his briefs, hastily pulled on when they’d heard a knock at Liam’s door.

“Go to your flat,” Louis urges, eyes manic when they open again, “You have your own room. This isn’t fair on Andy.”

Liam’s sure to be wincing, because Harry knows that “Andy’s staying at his girlfriend’s.”

“Fuck off!” Louis growls, “You cocky shit!”

“That was mean, Haz,” Liam says, pulling on his own briefs to stand, sheets falling as Louis’ own bedroom door slams shut, “He needs sleep.”

“And I needed to date you months earlier.” Harry counters, smug grin turning into something soft as Liam tries to pass him to go downstairs. He stops him with a hand on his navel, turning his boyfriend to kiss him slow and sweet. “Alright,” he acquiesces quietly after a few moments, breath hitched, “I’ll stop if you keep kissing me like that.”

“Sort of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?” Liam murmurs, but kisses him anyway, licking into Harry’s mouth languidly before pulling away, eyes crinkling, and turning to go downstairs.

“If I catch you sucking each other off in the kitchen again, I’m fucking suing!” Louis yells through the thin walls, and Harry bites his lip to stop himself from bursting into laughter. It’s not like he’d even been trying to get caught that time.

Harry’s not normally such a vindictive person – he likes his fun, sure, and Louis was a prick to him for weeks – but he’s a little giddy that he’s dating Liam and can touch him and kiss him and all those wonderful things. And when Harry first gets into a relationship, he can be a bit... well, intense.

So when they’re in bed together later that night, Liam sinking into Harry with a groan, Harry doesn’t let himself go like he has been the last few nights – doesn’t moan louder than usual, or make sure Liam’s making the bed smack into the wall with every thrust. Instead, he lets this night be theirs, quiet and intense and intimate.

“I like you so much,” Harry breathes against the side of Liam’s face, kissing it softly until Liam moves, their lips catching. Liam’s chest feels sweaty against Harry’s back, sliding in the heat of Liam’s bedroom. “ _So much._ ” Harry whimpers when Liam changes his angle slightly.

They kiss again, Harry’s neck twinging at the awkward angle. He doesn’t much care, though, with Liam’s hand gripping his thigh, pulling it over to rest on his own hip; Liam’s hipbones bruising Harry’s arse. He’s panting heavily, his tattoos out of proportion and warped with the way Harry’s stretched out, ribs heaving with every breath.

“Me, too.” Liam murmurs into Harry’s neck, breath hot and moist against Harry’s pulse point.

Harry comes quietly a few minutes later, a hitched gasp as he spurts across his own stomach, his hand slowing until it reaches a complete stop. He feels full and stretched with Liam still thrusting into him, and it’s barely ten seconds later when he’s coming as well, biting into Harry’s neck to muffle his moan.

The next morning Louis eyes them with disdain.

“I preferred it when you were loud,” he snaps, “None of this sappy shit. At least then it was kind of funny.”

Harry and Liam look at each other.

“Really, Lou?” Liam sighs tiredly, and Harry grins.

It’s a Friday, so when Harry starts smacking his hand against the wall with ‘reckless abandon’ that evening, Louis puts on blink-182 so loud that Harry orgasms to the lyrics _no one likes you when you’re twenty three_ drilling into his head _,_ cringing all the while.

So maybe Louis wins that round. Doesn’t matter.

 _There’s plenty more to come,_ Harry thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know your thoughts in the comments! I struggle with writing Harry, so I need to improve.
> 
> I used the tags 'homophobia' and 'internalised homophobia' because I was unsure of how people would take Harry not divulging his sexuality to Liam. I was just being cautious - I personally do not think it is any of these things, as it's no one's business to know, really.


End file.
